Because They Said We Were Crazy
by Immortalwerewolf
Summary: Their new director has already given up, a new percussion director every year, because they thought the new kids weren't good enough. One awkward girl named Fay shares her experience from the chime fishy and the hilarious events in the process.
1. Hi and Welcome to Band

I think I made a good impression the very first day of summer band, walking into the nearly empty band hall thirty minutes late wearing a long black skirt and anklets from work in the middle of the blazing hot day in the deep south. I'm still known as that girl, the Crazy One as they say it. the rest of practice is pretty much a blur, just yelling and the complete engulfment of loneliness from day to day. Freshman year, and I didn't even know what marching band was until our first game at Malan.

But that's not the whole story even, I didn't just join percussion yesterday, I knew my stuff. It started back in May, when I had found out about the drumline and pit auditions a whole week after they were over. Apparently our teacher didn't feel the need to tell the kids from the 'Ghetto' middle school that band was a little different in high school. Then he just couldn't leave it at that, not when I was still around.

"It's not like you would even learn the music Fay. Trust me, players like you never make drumline." He snarled one morning just after class. The next week he informed the rest of the band that he was leaving to work up higher in the state.

So now I was stuck on chimes behind the rest of the pit, sitting in the stands with nothing to do but wait for the half-time show. I mean, who really watches football anyway? It's just a bunch of muscle-heads running around the field with tight pants chasing a leather sack, right? But we won that night, and soon the entire percussion section was waiting in the bus, talking about the upcoming weekend. Jake felt the need to yell out his plans, a shower and hanging out with his girlfriend with added hip movements for his guy friends. They were all the same to me, tall skinny guys without anymore sense than a sack of potatoes. Until their section leader, ironically a shorter-looking girl with a tought attitude, suddenly gasped and pointed at the bus's ceiling. Who would have guessed that in the middle of a particularly humid and hot night and gigantic moth would find his way into our bus and start bobbing it's head on one of the glowing lights. The few girls squealed and jumped back, one crazy freshman trying to touch it.

But it was a sophomore's amazing idea to smash it with his bare hand. And if the sound of his hand against the thin metal, or the scream of all the girls on the bus wasn't enough, the fact that that damn moth had been positioned just under the light when he was squashed sealed the deal. Moth's guts and slimy parts were splattered around the entire bulb, which glowed brightly so everyone could see it. And to this very day I don't think I've ever heard a group of kids laugh that hard or loud.

I like to think myself as extremely mature and smart sometimes, and that these dumb boys and bitchy girls had nothing on me. But that first real night of marching band, with it's crazy chanting and questionable nonsense will always be my reason for never quitting. Being in the band was going to be a very interesting new life, I can guarantee that much.


	2. The Jist, and The Mistakes in Band

Oh the glory of finding things to do when you play a good fifteen notes in an eight minute show. I had two sections leaders this year, both quickly becoming my only friends in the entire band practically. They were the first to say that I should play cymbals for pep rallies and hold for the snares on stand tunes. And even though I was only scheduled for the first week's game and rally, I played every single one that year. But after the show was completely learned and the other students were suddenly bored between practices, the weird stuff started to happen.

It was a notorious saying, "Don't go in the Tuba Room" in the Band Hall. And I learned what happens when a flute dares break this rule. It's said that if you enter their doors, you will neither come out a virgin, and if you are a guy, straight. Jake claimed that he and Tanner black-lighted the room their freshman year, and refused to go into details about what they saw.

"Basically, the room was completely white." He shuddered. I failed to mention to him that many people could probably say the same thing about the percussion room. But there were even more rumors about different parts of the band hall, like the funny smelling trailer was always a occupational hazard if you weren't watching your back. Without a ramp or lift for it, the whole section would have to load each pit instrument one by one while the select few of us stayed inside and directed them. I have sprained a few ankles trying to dodge an incoming marimba. And I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure that every band has that one kid who's completely anal about the trailer order and how fast it gets done. Ours was one asshole in particular, always reminding us how slow or dumb we were. And yet he wanders why I don't go out of my way to hang out with him. And I'm guessing that telling him that meeting someone who can be as smart or responsible as me is a turn on isn't a good idea.

If you're in band of any kind, you know that feeling that you get at contests and games, where it's _your_ job to make sure everything goes perfect. Now I'm not saying that I wanted to plan our days or bake cookies, but I didn't want to leave behind something important, you know? But I knew that I was never going to be anything more than a stupid freshman to Robert, because after our second game I'm pretty sure he despised me. Thomas Hills, the real ghetto, had one of the steepest concrete hills leading down to the football field I had ever seen. And a little hint to pit people, always beware the dangers of an unbalanced tympani cart flying down a hill. But the game went good, our team won, and we could pack up and get home in time for an early bedtime. It was only the second game, so everyone still wanted to help load the trailers, including me. The drum major's podium was kept in place by two cement block in front of the wheels, and one was lying on the ground still. Without really thinking about it, I picked it up and headed for the trailer, and set it down on it's side, and let it tip over flat.

But physics had a different plan, the block cracking perfectly in half. Before I could even panic, Robert was screaming and asking if I was retarded.

"No, I'm sorry Robert!" I yelled back, my section leader running to the rescue before any punches were thrown. The fight ended abruptly, both of us still fuming when we got onto the buses. And even though I didn't mean too, I still felt guilty about the block. I mean, how much did those cost anyway? And could we get another one before next week?

"Don't worry about Robert, Fay. Even in middle school he was a hot-head." Jake reassured, leaning over to fall asleep. Still, only two weeks into the marching band season and I had already made my first enemy. I was scared Robert might kill me when we got back to the school, or worse, throw me into the Tuba Room.


End file.
